Lindbergh's just touching down and dissolute
scribes rush to cover history even as own lives go career/romance-unfulfilled.
So how much sympathy did Euro-idlers generate among US patrons barely able to
afford theatre admission? All here are well-dressed, often stand for a
bar-full's beverage, and need not toil when it interferes with night (or day)
recreation. Lots among '34 patronage didn't consider writing real work, so concerns among those
who pen could seem trivial even now. All this smacks of a Lost Generation that
Hemingway and copier John Monk Saunders described, and though Paris Interlude
is no Sun Also Rises, or even The Last Flight, it does compel through short
length spent with Robert Young, Madge Evans, and absurdly sacrificial Otto
Kruger (his a 30's career at giving up wives/sweethearts to younger rivals).
Bar-tending observer of all this is Ted Healy, his character's emptyinner life we glean
from sardonic commentary. Poor Ted ... we hardly knew ye.